Heeding his anxious mother over the phone, who had to chide him about “family duties to fulfil,” he returned half-heartedly—as if it were a one-time chore: an obsolete custom he could have been excused from given the nature of work abroad. His mother apprised him of the tradition: “It’s a custom, son, and you need to come compulsorily.”
But it so happened that he immediately pounced on the unconventional undertaking of changing his primary given name from the tonally brilliant Supriyo to a much-used, abused, casual-sounding, carefree, publicly recallable, Band-Aid fix of a name that sounded oh so perceptive to him: ‘Rahul’ (for a young man who spent quite a few years in the energy-dense and economically dynamic region of the world, the Persian Gulf), which no one from the community had really ever appreciated; whether he was privy to that verity or not, it’s a mystery. No one really asked him why, because everyone understood. It didn’t matter to Pinku; it was his wish, his will, and he’d say it and mean it. “So, knock it off.”
Everybody remarked, even the children, in good measure, however, “Hey Pinku, throughout your school and college life, you had that given name your parents gave you, and you changed it because you do not like it? What is the fun? Keno? Etar maane ki?” Why? What’s that supposed to mean? But soon they realized they were barking up the wrong tree; it was the grown-up man’s will, his wish, his name to change, and who were these people really to take umbrage when it was not their circus, not their monkey. Pinku meant business, seriously. His wish and his fish to fry!
--∞--
Arin could hardly visit Capt. Roy’s apartment again. Following Capt. Roy’s sudden demise, Mrs. Roy appeared gaunt and stressed at home, clearly struggling to come to terms with the loss of her husband. As things stood, life without her foodie husband, whose love of socializing and experimenting with new dishes at home meant he’d devour them with great appetite and share his home cooking with anyone who dropped in on his apartment to sample them on most Sunday evenings, had been completely recast in a mould that she’d have trouble identifying with, changing the course of her routine life. This sudden bend in the road of life reshaped her family’s future in the years to come. For widowed Mrs. Roy and her well-brought-up children, Pinku and Sangeeta, nothing would stay the same, as they, like their mom and late dad, had keenly realized that Alwal could be their permanent home, long after they left Meadows Barracks dormitory—and then afterward moved out of Trishul Park, Arin’s unforgettable, idyllic childhood sanctuary.
Arin still remembers the warm, sweetish, almost comforting, nutty fragrance of the cardamom-infused cookies with a whiff of cocoa that he often relished at Capt. Roy’s flat; the dishes were always arranged on their unique bonsai dining table, most likely bought from Udhampur, Kashmir, when Capt. Roy was posted there for some years of his long Army life. The numerous little tree branches underneath held a shiny glass top aloft as guests sat around it, talking and eating the burly, uniformly uneven cookies Capt. and Mrs. Roy had made. (Sometimes, the silhouettes of their homemade cookies looked quite… ahem… gross, like dried cow dung cakes slapped hard to a wall, baked hard, and given for eating! More will come—if we want. Just ask.)
When Pinku came home from abroad, he and Arin would go to the adjoining bedroom and chatter; he would show Arin his newest perfume, Nikon camera, music cassettes, and acid-wash jeans collection; he said he'd bought all of them duty-free.
(End of Part 4 of 5)
(To be continued…)
(End of part XIV)
By Arindam Moulick